


Zegnautus

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 17:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: It's not Prompto.  It's not Prompto.  It's not Prompto.But what if it is?





	Zegnautus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MysteriousBean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysteriousBean/gifts).



> Same as ever, FFXV and its content are the property of Square Enix. I merely play around in the sandpit they've created.
> 
>  **Please be advised that while this oneshot doesn’t feature graphic violence or injury, it is strongly implied and potentially upsetting/disturbing in places.** As such I have provided an additional tag and marked the work as mature. Please keep this in mind before reading any further.
> 
> Inspired by this art [right here.](https://mysteriousbean5.tumblr.com/post/186288382416/so-zegnatus-but-instead-of-finding-prom-strung)

_It’s not Prompto. It’s not Prompto. It’s not Prompto._

It’s a mantra he repeats every time he finds a body wearing Prompto’s clothes. It’s just another one of Ardyn’s mind games, honed to a perfect edge, sharper than any of the weapons in his Armiger. None of the bodies are Prompto, they can’t hold up to close inspection, too few freckles, too many, the callouses on his palms all wrong, the scars on his hands and arms _not quite right_. But even finding the discrepancies... it’s a blow to his gut every time he spies a familiar boot sticking out from the twisted wreckage of downed MTs, or catches a flutter of torn plaid snagged on a railing and leans over to find the broken body so far below, or finds him cut up and scattered around as if daemons grew tired of playing around with his limbs and insides.

But they _look like him_ , just as Ardyn did on the train, and with every version of a familiar face - bruised, bloody, frozen in an expression of agony, missing the eyes, or the teeth, or the tongue piercing - he dies a little more inside, gets a little bit more _frantic_ in his search. It’s not him, but it could be. It _was_ , on the train, and Noctis attacked him with blade and spell and hate. _He_ pushed Prompto over, not Ardyn, and every single one of these... these _copies_ aren’t him, but they could be, they _might_ be.

He might never have the chance to say he’s sorry. For falling for Ardyn’s illusions. For not recognising the run, or the words so foreign from Ardyn’s mouth, or the _plea_ in his voice, or the lack of _fight_ when Noctis cornered him. All signs that, looking back, should have set alarm bells ringing in his head. He should have known the face staring back at him was an illusion, he should have _felt_ the magic thick and oily in the air around him, he should have listened, he should have _hesitated._ He should’ve - he _could’ve_ -

_It’s not Prompto. It’s not Prompto. It’s not Prompto._

* * *

It’s not Prompto in the cell, either. Two of the patches on his jacket are mixed up. But it frowns like him, moans in pain like him when an attempt to flex its fingers jostles a mangled hand. The head tips back as whatever - _whoever_ \- it is shifts in the restrains and Noctis can’t help the step closer. _It looks like him and -_

And it lashes out at him with the other hand as eyes flash open and fix him with a baleful glare, mouth yawning too far and tearing wide open at the corners, and it _screams_ at him, that mechanical, inhuman sound of magitech in battle. He scrambles out of its reach, out of the cell, fleeing the sight of something wearing Prompto’s face and the red, glowing eyes of an MT. But he can’t outurn the cameras in every corridor and stairway and wide open space, can’t shut out Ardyn’s laughter crackling from every speaker and daemon pouncing at him from the shadows.

_It’s not Prompto. It’s not Prompto. It’s not Prompto._

A thought more terrifying than anything Ardyn can possibly throw at him: _what if he died falling from the train?_

* * *

_They’re_ not Prompto. Not really, not where it counts. Biologically similar, or maybe the same, but _they’re not Prompto_. They’re clones. So many of them. Lab experiments shut away from the light of day and they might be sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of the horrors surrounding them, except they’re _submerged in tanks_ and not one of them has an oxygen supply.

Gladio catches him when he stumbles suddenly, when his stomach rebels and he nearly loses his lunch right there in the middle of - of all the -

“We should go,” Gladio says, hauling him upright and keeping such a tight grip on his arm there’ll be bruises later, “we still need to find Iggy.”

 _“No,”_ and it might be a gasp or a scream. He doesn’t know, ears ringing too loud, too quiet, humming on the periphery of his hearing and he _knows_ that song, feels it in his _soul_. The bond between them, pulling taut as it always does when he’s near Prompto but not quite close enough, a tug on the other end of the string as if to say _I’m here, come find me. “He’s here,”_ and he struggles onward, forces himself to look at every face, the hands, the chest, the knees. They’re clones, but they’ve been locked up in here while Prompto’s been out in the world. They’re _different_. They’re flawless, lifeless, and Prompto’s anything but. He’s got 22 years out in the world mapped across his body with every mark and scar and _Noctis is going to find him._

* * *

He’s breathing. His tank is empty of fluid and he’s _breathing_. That knowledge alone keeps Noctis from beating on the tank and screaming until he has no voice left. He’s beaten and unconscious, yes, but he’s _alive_ , his very presence stirring Noctis’s magic until it sparks and fizzes at his fingertips.

And so he puts his hands on the glass separating them and uses it as a guide as he fashions a barrier directly underneath it, copies the shape and feel of it to keep Prompto from further harm as he nods to Gladio. He maintains the spell even when the greatsword comes down with an almighty _clang_ so close to his head and the impact jars through his bones, when it takes a second swing to fracture the glass and a _third_ to smash it.

He reshapes the barrier, moulds it to the jagged edges so Gladio can reach inside without tearing his arm open, dizzy and breathless and refusing to even _blink_ for fear Prompto will vanish - but no. He doesn’t, he’s right there and he’s _real_ and Gladio carefully lifts him from the tank without incident, takes a couple steps back so he can set him down on the floor without glass getting in the way and Noctis _crawls_ to them, no strength left in his legs to stand.

“Prompto,” a prayer and plea both, over and over as he shakes his shoulder and pats his cheek and pinches him on the inner forearm. _Wake up. Please please please wake up._

Prompto doesn’t wake. But he’s not _dead_ , just cold.

And then _Ignis_ can be heard over the speakers, scathing and _furious_ as he interrupts Ardyn’s monologue and just before the sound cuts off - he could swear he heard the crackle of flames. Noctis doesn’t argue when Gladio spins round to face him, asking without saying a word.

“Go,” he says, _orders_ , and Gladio takes off running.

No-one gets left behind. Not this time, he won’t allow it.


End file.
